Grum's Grudging Grumble's
The Plight of Lord Fairelf
Dear Grudging Grum,
You may recall previously receiving my correspondence and I must apologise for not writing you back sooner - I have only recently managed to recover the use of my fingers. This aside, the matter upon which I wish to address you concerns your advice to myself and my team - the late Golden Nobles from Ulthuan. It appears that either you are incompetent, or merely vicious in an attempt to hurry us towards our doom.
Perhaps I should have been more wary when you addressed me as "Sir Elfypants" in your salutation, but I merely set this aside as an eccentricity brought on by your long-time contact with something that is, after all, a sport partaken in primarily by low-lifes. Be that as it may, the advice we received from you led us from bad to worse. Firstly, all the teams that you suggested we play were no more than common thugs. The disciples of Chaos, in particular, were a nasty lot. Not only did they not appear to have bathed in the last several weeks, they also had the audacity to lay hands on Duke Faraniel. Before we could come to his aid, no fewer than seven members of their team surrounded him to partake in some gruesome ritual. His Grace has not been the same since - even after his wounds healed. He still weeps whenever he sees a spoon, for instance.
I shall spare you the details of our other match-ups - no doubt you know how they ended. I had at least expected the Dwarfs to show some nobility in their action, or perhaps these Khemri who labeled themselves as "Tomb Kings". This, however; was not the case. Things went from bad to worse, and several members of our team have been permanently crippled. My good friend and life-long companion, Count Elmspar the Younger, even lost his life! Before we could revive him, the opposing team used some vile Necromancy and now he plays for them. The sight of his fine hands and beautiful golden hair deteriorating, the flesh rotting on his bones, has given me nightmares that I relive almost on a daily basis.
In conclusion, I must inform you that I am taking judicial action into consideration. I believe that I have a fine case for criminal negligence, and that even charges of murder may not be out of place. I am writing you to give you the chance to offer us your profound apologies and to perhaps make amends, or otherwise explain yourself.
Lord Fairelf III, Heir to the Earldom of Dawngate.
It truly saddens me to hear of your plight, and I offer you my condolences for the loss of your wife - pardon me, I meant, of course, your friend - and the unfortunate events that have befallen your comrades. However, I must stress that you asked for opponent of a suitable "station". As you were, by your own admission, new to the game at the time of your first correspondence - or as we say in the business, a stupid noob - I took this to mean that you wished to play teams that were easy for you to defeat. Indeed, since you did not specify otherwise, that was the most likely assumption to make, as cherry seeks cherry.
Thus I offered you a series of slow and inagile teams, all of whom lacked any true skill in this game that we call Bloodbowl - graceful dodges and fast movement, the swift arcing flight of the ball from thrower to receiver, the skill and expertise found nigh only amongst the elven particpants of our fine sport. The stuff you pansies like.
At no point did you request for there to be no violence present in your games. Indeed, the more violent the team, the less likely they are to attempt to take the ball, by which it follows that the more psychothic the team, the easier it is to win. I thus, admittedly, offered you a series of hard-hitting opponents. However, you claimed to be fine elven lords to the elf - or so I assumed - and thus I thought it safe enough, for are not all elven lords skilled in the arts of battle? Or are you just talk after all?
I must therefore demand that you offer me an apology and withdraw your accusations that I am incompetent - I know my subject matter very well indeed. If you do not comply, I shall be forced to submit a lawsuit for libel, and we shall let our lawyers decide who is correct. Or I could ask an ogre team to come pay you a visit, it's all the same to me.
May you break a nail,
* * *
Brag of Roses
Dear Uncle Grum,
I play lots of games, making me a Bloodbowl star, I have a cuddly name, I even have lots scars to brag about, but still the girls never come to my room. What am I doing wrong?
Bag of Roses
Dear Bag of Roses,
What's this about you being a Bloodbowl star? Has it come to your attention that you play for a Chaos Dwarf team? That's right, read that again. Chaos. Dwarf. Other than your stuny-esque stature, there is nothing that would allow you to compare favourably towards any kind of dwarf. You are, and will always remain, a lowly goblin, albeit of the hob- subvariety. As such, you are nothing, a nobody, a mere footnote in the annals of your team's history.
You say you have scars to brag about? Give me a break - nobody is interested in the wounds left by the whips of your masters. You're a slave - a lowly worm! Go back to licking the bootheels of your betters. Perhaps one day they will deign to notice you and throw you a bone.
And as for the matter of girls, or reproduction, you can put that one right out of your mind. Even for a hobgoblin you are a pathetic specimen, unworthy to pass down your genetic characteristics.
I can't believe I just spent the effort of replying to this...
Uncle Grum hereby denies claims that Bag of Roses committed suicide after receiving his reply.